


at the end of your knock-about day

by apatternedfever



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Tower, Coulson recovers with the Avengers, Gen, Nonsexual Ageplay, background JARVIS, background team dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apatternedfever/pseuds/apatternedfever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Loki and dealing with his new team, Phil gets a chance to relax and recuperate the best way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at the end of your knock-about day

**Author's Note:**

> The best way to respond to your own claim of "I'm not sure I can see Coulson doing ageplay" is obviously to write Coulson doing ageplay. Blame my brain, and also my partner, for having surprisingly long discussions about ageplay fanfiction with me.
> 
> Unbetaed due to my lack of having a beta. Constructive criticism very welcome.

It takes three days, after Phil wakes up, for the whirlwind of chain reactions to diminish. The whirlwind is mostly related to people finding out; the actual medical treatment, though still ongoing, barely registers in the flurry of activity. No, that's all overshadowed by finding out what happened after his death ("death"?), and the Avengers showing up in his hospital room only twelve hours after waking up.

When all is said and done, this is where it ends up: nobody defects from SHIELD who's currently a part of it, but nobody's any fonder of it either; Fury is still looking for a way to keep Tony Stark out of their computers; the only reason Phil is the _un_ official Avenger-wrangler is because he's still not cleared for work, and that will probably change as soon as he is cleared; somehow he's managed to get them all to think of him as a friend _in his absence_ and possibly _because_ of his time unconscious, which may be the strangest way to make friends Phil has ever heard of; and now he's living in Stark Tower, which is actually Avengers Tower, because while he was unconscious someone seems to have taught Stark the true meaning of teamwork. His money is on Captain America but who knows? Maybe it's something else he accidentally did as a ghost in the back of everyone's heads.

It's strange, but it's not bad, and the room is more comfortable than anything SHIELD assigns while he's on-site or his public apartment. Even the voice of JARVIS and his incorporeal control over the room is easier to get used to than Phil expects. The fact that he spent the first nearly-thirty hours there almost entirely unconscious helps; he'd only come awake for ten or twenty minutes at a time at first, usually to the sight of one or more Avengers hovering around. It's touching and uncomfortably strange in about equal measures. He's usually the one sitting by a wounded agent's bedside, out of worry, guilt, or just the knowledge that, with the solitary life of many SHIELD agents, nobody else will be there to do it. He can't remember the last time he was hurt badly enough for it to be the other way around.

Once he manages to sleep off the exhaustion from the initial bustle and stay awake for more than an hour, everyone seems a little less concerned. Enough that he manages to convince them he'll be okay if they leave him alone for the night and, in fact, would appreciate a little time alone. He knows for a fact that JARVIS will alert them if something goes wrong -- knows because half of them pointedly mention it, and would know anyway because he's not an idiot and he knows he's still healing. It's still privacy, though, and that's a breath of fresh air. The team's concern is nice; it's also overwhelming, and he's overwhelmed enough without them.

Once they disperse, though, he starts to wonder if that's the right answer. Because he's left alone in a strange room, in a strange place, on blue blue sheets (and when he looks at them too long he just remembers the world shimmering blue and a spike of pain), surrounded by strange artwork on the strange walls and a strange view outside the window.

It's all new, it's all different, and it's very touching that they went through such lengths to have him where they could keep an eye on him, but it's not what he wants right now. What he wants is comfort. What he wants is known things and familiar patterns. Even SHIELD medical would be familiar, if not the happiest place on Earth.

Lying on his back, wanting to toss and turn with discomfort but knowing too much movement is bad for him, Phil closes his eyes and finds himself suddenly, sharply wishing for his own apartment. For familiar clothes instead of the sweatpants and t-shirt Pepper provided him that fit very nicely but nonetheless still feel new. For familiar movies on old tapes with faded labels, that he has to get out of bed to put on instead of calling to the disembodied AI for. For....

For the locked boxes neatly tucked away under his bed and the numbers carefully, inconspicuously labeled in his phone for times like this. For something to take the stress off, so that he can stop thinking about the sharp pain of something sliding into his back, of too much blue, of a desperate last stab and trying to sound braver than he feels. Something to let him stop trying to be braver, more confident, more in control than he feels. If he was home, he knows what number he'd call, what box to dig into; but he's not. He doesn't even know where his phone went, and even if he did, he wouldn't call.

There are parts of his life that no one -- not his agents, not casual friends, not even Fury -- know about. He likes it best that way; wouldn't do anything to compromise it. There are people who know nothing about Agent Phil Coulson, about SHIELD and his part of the Avengers Initiative, and he likes that too, maybe even better. There are people who just know Phil, perpetually a little harried from work, prone to disappearing for four or six months at a time before coming back with apologies and excuses about things getting busy.

Friends and lovers and something more, who just know Phil, who sometimes wants to be tied and told what to do, and sometimes wants to be brought down to tears with words and whips; but most of all, and most of the time, who wants to go back. Who wears brightly-colored flannel or fleece instead of suits and doodles on construction paper; who doesn't snark but does tell terrible knock-knock jokes, and whose laugh comes easier than Agent Coulson's is allowed to. Just Phil, who's seven now -- sometimes younger, sometimes older, but it's usually seven: old enough to read on his own and young enough to still prefer being read to; old enough to help with chores and cooking and too young to be trusted in the kitchen alone for more than sandwiches; old enough to run and play and take care of himself for a little while and young enough that he still needs to be watched, still is allowed to demand attention.

It's been months -- even not counting the time he wasn't conscious for, even just going before Loki turned up and turned everything to hell -- since he got that freedom. Months since he could slip away from work for a few nights, to settle into being a "normal person" like a second skin, and then settle into being something else. And maybe it's far from normal, really, the things he does and the company he keeps, but so is everything else about his life; why should his relaxation and coping mechanisms be any less strange?

They all knew they were poised on the edge of a knife, the edge of a storm, waiting for the destruction. And now the destruction's blown through, they've come out the other side, and what he needs most he doesn't have anyone around to give him.

That doesn't mean he can't have it. But it means it takes more creativity, and more thought, and more effort. More than that, it means being careful, as long as he's here; so much more careful than he usually is, hidden away in his apartment or someone else's or some public place where, nonetheless, something like this is to be expected. He doesn't want any of the team to see this. It's not shame -- but this is his. It's entirely separate from Agent Coulson, and blending the two would just confuse him, and confuse everyone around him, and make it harder to separate everything.

He doesn't even have anything here with him. No crayons or construction paper, none of his movies, not even his clothes. He could improvise, but he's so tired and his chest still hurts, and letting go when he knows anyone could be coming to check on him is hard.

But the day ticks on, blends into the night, and he can see the sunset outside the window. He doesn't know how long has passed since he asked for privacy, but other than Pepper coming in to bring him food and ask how he is, nobody's bothered him. She even asked, through JARVIS, before she come to see him. He can't relax, and if he's going to do anything, now is the time, before the morning approaches and people start getting anxious. He has no doubt that, come tomorrow, he'll have visitors again.

He plucks at the t-shirt. It's not his clothes, but they're comfortable, and that's the important part; he can't do this in his day-to-day clothes. He's still not sure what to do, but he rarely has a full plan, usually just goes into it and sees what he's in the mood for. And as for worrying that he'll get interrupted....

"JARVIS," he calls abruptly.

"Yes, Agent Coulson?" comes the pleasant voice from nowhere, from everywhere.

"Can you tell me if anyone is coming this way, or mentions coming here?" he asks, drumming his fingers on the night table.

"Yes," JARVIS answers, and Phil nods before remembering that JARVIS doesn't technically have eyes to see it with. Though he has no doubt that he/it will know anyway.

"Do that until tomorrow morning, then, thanks." He pauses, closes his eyes, and then has another thought suddenly, one that makes him want to forget the idea entirely. He hesitates, not wanting to say anything to the AI, in case Tony, for some reason, listens to everything people say to JARVIS. He should forget it. He should, but....

Now that he's thought of letting go, he can't think of anything else. Now that he's decided, the idea of losing it almost hurts as much as his chest.

"JARVIS, if anyone asks what I'm doing...." He hesitates, and the AI speaks while he's still trying to phrase it.

"If the others ask about your status, I have only told them how your vitals are. Does that help, Agent Coulson?"

"Yes," he answers with a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

He only lies there for another minute, thinking, trying to figure out what he's doing, if he's really doing this. Then, slowly, he moves to sit up a little, scooting back so that the collection of pillows behind him will keep him up. He folds his legs and rests his hands loosely over his kneecaps, closing his eyes slowly, and focuses on his breathing.

He has a routine, a ritual of kinds. He didn't always; and he doesn't always need it. Some days all he needs to do is put on his pajamas and he's in the right place, some days all it takes it telling himself it's okay and letting go. But some days he can't stop thinking about SHIELD, worrying about an op coming up, wondering what he could have done better on one that messed up. Some days he's just too wound up, too upset, too something. Some days he needs help, and an old friend helped him figure out a trick, a way to sink in to it.

Forty-six, he starts. Forty-six used to be something else, something trivial and unimportant, but now, he knows, forty-six is one of the few that will never change. Forty-six, almost dying.

Forty-five, losing three agents because of bad intel.

Forty-four, the first few awkward, miserable weeks after breaking up with Maria.

Forty-three, selling the old house.

Forty-two, Dad dying.

The count goes down, one thing a year lifted from him, like weights off his back. One thing a year that he'd love to turn back to clock on. Each one passing through, remembered and dismissed with a pang and regret, but without dwelling. He learned, after the first few times, how not to dwell on the things he let pass. Keeping it to one a year, instead of every bad thing to pass through his mind, helps. The only time he ever let himself do more than that, he never even got through the count, caught up in too many mistakes and disasters to focus on anything else. One a year, the years slipping off like layers of dirt. Some of them are trivial as he counts back, some years difficult to find an important event in. Some of them, even when he's young, still hurt a little to think about (seventeen, not managing to get accepted to either of his top colleges; twelve, finding out his mother was cheating on his father).

He takes his time, lets each year drift through, until finally he gets down to single-digits, to the youth he's grasping to relive.

Eight, giving Freddy up because we couldn't take care of a dog anymore.

Seven. Deep breath.

Six. You're safe here.

Five. Stretch your fingers, stretch your hands.

Four. You're safe here.

Three. How do you feel? _Don't lie, Phil,_ comes the echo of many voices, of his mother and his grandfather, of playmate parents and babysitters, _tell me the truth._

Two. _It hurts,_ he answers the echoes, he answers himself, rolling his shoulders experimentally and then wincing, curling in on himself. _My chest hurts. I'm tired. I don't want to get up. Do I have to?_

One. _It's okay to feel that way. However you feel, that's okay. You're safe here._

Zero. Hello, Phil.

There's always a disconnect between little Phil and big Phil. He doesn't forget -- there are days where he thinks he'd never come up if he could actually shed the years, forget what drove him to want to be seven again. No, he knows very well that he almost died two months ago, that the pain in his chest (sharp when he moves or breathes wrong, dulled now when he doesn't) is from Loki's spear, that his body is too big for the age he thinks as. He knows he's not really seven.

It's just that none of it matters.

Why his chest hurts doesn't matter. What matters is that it hurts and itches and it's annoying and he wants it to go _ __away_. __ Where he is doesn't matter; what matters is that it's comfortable, that his clothes are warm and he can move in them and the quilt is cozy and comfortably heavy. He shimmies his way down the bed -- carefully, after he forgets and moves too fast and his chest flares in pain -- until he's entirely under it, pulling one pillow along with him and letting the blankets block out the room's light.

What he really is, why he needs this, doesn't matter. It's all dismissed with the years he lets slips away.

Right now what matters is this: His chest hurts but not so much he can't enjoy himself. He's tired but he doesn't want to sleep anymore. He likes the sheets and quilt but the pillowcase is textured and weird -- he shoves it off the side of the bed, using his arms as a pillow instead. He's not hungry; he wants a drink but he doesn't feel like getting up to get it. He wants his books, but he doesn't have them. He has nothing to draw with or play with, and he scowls in the darkness. He can't do much with nothing to play with unless he gets up, and he's hurt, so he can't get up. He hates being stuck in bed for too long, but he knows better than to get up. He's being trusted to look after himself and do what he's supposed to (it's easier to think of that, to think that someone is trusting him to be a good boy than that he's telling himself what he can and can't do, because then the divide blurs and he can't entirely get rid of the flavor of grown-up Phil in his thoughts), so he has to do it to prove he can.

It's not that he doesn't like staying still -- he can stay still for a long time, with his books or his toys or a movie or something. He just doesn't like being bored.

He can have a movie, though. He can have any movie he wants.

He wriggles his arms out from under the blanket to pull it down -- little Phil moves differently, holds himself different. He doesn't bother to control his movements, he fidgets and wiggles and squirms. He's loose-limbed and relaxed, even when he's hunched and unsure. And sometimes he is unsure; sometimes the pressure of needing to be confident means that the greatest relief in being little is not needing to be confident and know what to do anymore. But sometimes it's the opposite, sometimes it's because he is more confident this way, because it's easier to know what to do. Today is one of those days, when instead of letting himself twist up with uncertainty, being seven means being sure. That's good, he notes and dismisses absently, letting the thoughts that don't fit flow away (once he worried about every thought that sounded more like adult Phil than little Phil, but that'll break him out easier than anyone thought, and he learned long ago how not to do that). When he's unsure, he doesn't do so well without someone to guide him along. He can handle himself alone a little easier when he's this way.

"Jaaaaarviiis?" he says uncertainly, drawing out the vowels, turning the word into something different, more of a name than a title.

"Yes," and there's something that's very nearly uncertain, a pause where JARVIS seems to be taking in his change of tone, "sir?"

Phil giggles; he can't help it. Sir sounds weird, it's weird to think of himself being _ __sir_ __ to anyone, even the butler-AI. "Can you put on a movie?"

"Of course. A certain movie, or did you want suggestions?"

He thinks for a minute, plucking at the sheet -- getting suggestions might be cool, he could find something he hasn't seen, but he hurts and he doesn't really _ __want_ __ something he hasn't seen. He wants something he knows. "Sleeping Beauty," he decides. It's a girl's movie, but the fairies are funny, and he likes that he has the Prince's name.

JARVIS doesn't answer, but a second later he hears the familiar music start and looks up, grinning at the sheer size of the screen that lights up in front of him. He starts running his hands over pillows, looking for one that itches less and tossing the ones with patterned pillowcases off the bed to join the other. He makes himself a kind of nest, curled up so that he can see the television without having to sit up and burrowed in the blanket up to his chin.

He falls asleep before the kingdom does, and when he opens his eyes again, there's light outside his window and the movie is playing again, softer. He just barely remembers waking up to silence earlier and asking JARVIS to put it on again.

He can feel some semblance of normality, or at least adulthood, creeping up on him, but he's not ready to let go quite yet. He slips down farther under the covers, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He's not even doing anything, barely consciously thinking, but he doesn't need to. Everything is looser, better, and even rubbing at the healing itch under his shirt doesn't make him think about everything again. His stomach growls, his eyes flutter open and closed arrythmically. He yawns again, turning over, away from the window; everything is quiet, even in his head.

It can't last forever -- he's hungry, and he can't stay small when someone comes in to bring breakfast; people are going to want to check on him eventually; he can't stay seven forever, even if it is a little tempting right now. But he stays there for a little longer, warm and comfortable, listening to the fairies fight over the color of Aurora's dress.

Finally, slowly, he takes in a breath, and starts to count again.

One, breathe in; two, breathe out. Three, breathe in; four, breathe out. Five, breathe in; six, breathe out.

Seven. Say goodbye.

Eight, meeting Annie, playing in her backyard.

Nine, his first karate lessons, the teacher's praise for how quickly he picked up the moves.

He counts up slower than he counts down, remembering one good thing, one thing he's glad to pull back into himself. Unlike going down, dismissing it without letting himself fixate, he dwells on his way back up. He lets himself hover, feeling the joy, the things he's been blessed to have in his life: eleven, a week-long vacation to New York with his family; sixteen, his first car, the feeling of freedom, the joy of road trips with friends; twenty-five, being recruited by SHIELD; thirty-eight, his first uncertain trip into being young again, the first time he felt the relief of being a child and realized how much good it did him.

Forty-six, he counts finally, to the soft, familiar sound of Prince Phillip fighting the dragon all around him. He hesitates for a moment, trying not to let the enormity of the past few months rise up and overwhelm anything happy, trying to find something to count off to welcome him back to his everyday self -- and then suddenly, it's there, so obvious he can't figure out why it took him even a minute to find it.

Forty-six. The Avengers Initiative was a success. There's a team instead of just an idea, and they're your team to work with, and they're worried about you. Your team is worried about you. Time to reassure them.

He opens his eyes and realizes he's smiling, stretches languidly. He's not as tense as he had been yesterday, but his movements are still different, less haphazard. He put a careful hand behind him, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position, letting the blanket slip off away.

"Good morning, sir," comes JARVIS' voice, almost sounding cheerful -- or maybe that's just Phil's better outlook this morning. Everything isn't gone; his chest still hurts, the thought of Loki is still one he'd rather avoid, but it's not ready to overwhelm him anymore. It's not too much; it just is. "Should I tell the others that you're awake?"

"Yes, thank you, JARVIS," Phil answers pleasantly, shuffling to the edge of the bed and carefully moving to pick the pillows off the floor. "Tell them I'm ready for visitors, if they want to see that I'm alive for themselves. And turn the volume up until they get here, please."

Just because he's ready to put away childish things for now doesn't mean he has to do it all at once.


End file.
